


i'd do anything to not be alone

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Melancholy, Plantboy Phil Lester, Plants, Post-Break Up, a lil bit, but dan also becomes a bit of a plantboy, i promise nobody's dead okay, literally that's it that's the plot is plants, more like a general melancholic hopefulness?, sort of? it's not even really angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: I don’t know why I bother waking up. It’s one of those nonessential activities, like eating or drinking or breathing. But I do it, because if I don’t, then nobody would water the plants.Phil left and Dan doesn't know why. But he has to take care of the plants, because Phil would beso disappointedif he came back and his plants had died.





	i'd do anything to not be alone

“ _Dan, it’s two in the fucking morning, what do you want_.” The voice on the other end is familiar, abrasive and curt and the exact kind of thing I need right now. It’s also thoroughly sleep-ridden, low and crackly. I sigh, staring at the pale moonlit wall across from my bed.

“I know, I just...he still won’t answer. Can you please-”

“ _I’m not a late night booty call, get your head out of your ass and move on, okay._ ” If possible, her voice has gone gruffer, more pissed off than when it’d just been a way-too-early wake-up call. The sheets slide down my chest as I sit up.

“No, it’s not like that, I just- I can’t be alone right now.” My gaze drifts to the windows, to the green-black vines that’ve crawled through the narrow openings at the bottom to climb along the inner side of the panes of glass. There’s a sigh on the other end of the phone.

“ _Fine_.” The line disconnects. I exhale. Inhale. I have to do that, focus on breathing, on reminding myself to make that effort. Right now it feels unnecessary, like an extravagance I don’t deserve. The windows blur in front of me.

I don’t realize any time’s passed until the door opens and I jump, tugging my sheets up to cover my bare chest. It’s hilarious, suddenly, that if someone broke in, my first concern would be to protect my modesty. Besides, it’s just Ella. She’s seen worse.

“You look like shit.” She doesn’t pause as she throws her bag down with a thump by the door, crosses the space of the tiny flat and sits on the bed beside me. 

“You’ve seen worse,” I argue, the only coherent thought in my head. It comes out on a choked breath, though, and I realize belatedly that the blurring had been tears, that they’ve drawn angry tracks down my cheeks and dripped tiny discolored dots onto our sheets.

“You look pretty shit,” she says again, lifting a well-maintained brow. I let myself slump over, the urge to say something sarcastic or witty sparking at the edge of my mind before fizzling out.

“I know,” is all that ends up passing my lips, and my voice comes out low and soft and resigned. My fingers find the edge of the sheet, rubbing at it absently. A cool breeze blows in through the open windows, sending a shiver up my spine. Ella shifts beside me.

“You should sleep.” She lays a warm hand on my shoulder, and I look up before the thought’s fully formed in my head, well before I can even come up with the energy to actually ask. “ _No_ , I’m not staying,” she purses her lips, as close to a frown as I can expect. She’s always had a soft spot for me. That’s why I called her.

“I can’t be alone, El, I _can’t_.” How do I even begin to explain that it’s impossible to breathe with the breeze that smells of damp earth from the plants Phil left on the balcony, that I can’t look at the crumpled duvet at the base of the bed because it’s the same shade of blue as Phil’s eyes, that I can’t even close my goddamn eyes because all I can see is him on the pillow beside me, blinking and giving me a soft smile that said how much he cared without ever speaking a word aloud?

“Fine,” she says, the exact tone she had on the phone. I lift up the edge of the sheet to let her crawl under. Even as she settles beside me, sweatpants brushing up against my leg and soft cotton t-shirt already sticking to the cooling sweat on my back, I’m reading into every difference.

The dip of the bed feels _off_ , pulling me down in all the wrong places. The breaths against my back hit the spot between my shoulder blades instead of the base of my neck. The hand rubbing circles on my arm - El’s attempt to soothe me, I know - goes anticlockwise, and only ends up sending my brain into overdrive.

I turn until I’m facing her, and brown eyes stare back. _Wrong color wrong color wrong color_ runs on repeat in my head, but I ignore it, sliding my hand around to the back of her neck, drawing her in until those lips - _not Phil’s not Phil’s not Phil’s_ \- are an inch from mine. 

“Dan.” She says, and her breath smells of spearmint. _Not peppermint, all wrong, not sweet enough, Phil always wanted the sweet mint, threw a fit if I got it wrong._ The thought pricks at my heart, a searing bittersweet pain that only makes me desperate to move closer to El, to tell her to just make me _forget_ , because I can’t. I can’t deal with this. I don’t want to.

“ _Dan_ ,” she says again, when I let my senses take over and inhale all the wrong scents and beg to taste all the wrong things and feel all the wrong skin on mine. Her sigh sounds wrong, too, not the low, soft exhales Phil would make when I got this close - his always came from a different place, too, never from a place of disappointment or frustration.

She pushes me away, then, and I use the minimal momentum she’s provided me to turn over completely, to stare at the wall of windows that let pale moonlight filter through etched glass ‘ _because we need privacy but I still need sunlight!_ ’ I’d called Phil a plant. He had laughed, like I’d just made the funniest joke in the world. ‘ _I basically am,_ ’ he’d said after a moment. ‘ _A really complicated plant with feelings and stuff_.’ Then we’d both laughed at that. Funny, I’m sure as fuck not laughing at the _feelings_ now.

“I’ll stay,” Ella says behind me, and a hand rests on my bare shoulder. I suddenly want nothing more than to shove her away, to rage at her - at anyone, really. I’d always raged at Phil, maybe that’s my problem. I just want to scream when things go wrong, perhaps he’d had enough of it. I don’t know. He didn’t say.

“Don’t,” I choke out before the tears return to bite at the edge of my vision, blurring the glass and crawling vines into a mess of green and grey and black. The hand leaves my shoulder, the bed shifts behind me, the door opens and closes. Silence creeps in the same way the vines had all those months ago. I wish it would swallow me whole.

\----------

I don’t know why I bother waking up. It’s one of those nonessential activities, like eating or drinking or breathing. But I do it, because if I don’t, then nobody would water the plants. 

The spider plant gets water today, just a bit, as does the ficus. I feel like I’m moving around the flat on auto-pilot, from the sink - whilst holding the biggest cup we own - over to the corner with just the right amount of shade for the ficus. I somehow manage not to slosh the water over the edge and onto the floor, which is good, as it’s already a warped pale wood that would only warp further if I let moisture seep in.

The ficus seems droopy, and I wonder if it misses Phil as much as I do. I water it anyway, then return to the sink and fill the cup halfway for the spider plant. It was flowering last week, but the petals have all since fallen in a dusting of not-actually-snow on the floor that I can’t be bothered to clean up. They’re turning brown. I dump the water into the soil of the hanging basket.

I take a glance over to the philodendron - ‘ _get it, like ‘Phil’!_ ’ - and decide it should be fine for another day. I don’t water the ivy. It gets enough from the weather, since England tends to be predictably England-like. It’s about the only time I’m grateful for rain, because I don’t think I could go out on the balcony and consciously water the ivy. It had been Phil’s favorite.

Instead, I return the cup to its spot beside the sink and sit down in my chair at the breakfast bar. Absently, I trail a finger along the purplish-pink leaf of one of the succulents Phil had gotten ‘ _to bring some color, Dan, we can’t live in a completely grey flat!_ ’. I don’t need to water the succulents yet. They don’t seem to mind that Phil’s left.

With another sigh - which, it seems, is about the only way I end up breathing - I stand again, forcing myself to the fridge; by the time I arrive, it takes a momentus amount of willpower to actually open it, to peek in and frown at the emptiness inside. _How poetic_ , I think for a moment, _that the fridge has decided to act as a mirror for my heart_. It’s a stupid thought, I know, and tragic and silly, but there it is.

I shut the fridge and turn to the cabinets instead, as if I don’t already know I’ll be met with an equally barren landscape of coffee filters and tea and other insubstantial things. I stare into the darkness for a long moment, debating whether or not it’s worth a proper trip to the store. _Is it worth going outside? Existing somewhere outside the space Phil should be in with me?_ That would make it real. I don’t think I’ve left since Phil did.

I turn slowly, mind already set on spending the day in bed, because what would it matter anyway? Nobody would care if I just wasted away here. Not even Phil, apparently.

Except the window across from our bed - or is it my bed, now? - stares back, freckled with green leaves. _The plants would care._ They would die if nobody watered them. With a resigned breath - because I suppose I have to _breathe_ in order to take care of them, don’t I? - I turn on a heel toward the dresser. 

Phil didn’t take much when he left. I pull a pair of his jeans and one of his t-shirts from the mess of both our clothes without thinking. Maybe the plants will be happier to have me looking after them this way. Maybe they won’t miss Phil so much. Maybe I won’t.

The jeans feel familiar, even though wearing his clothes isn’t something I’d done often. They’re just jeans, really, but I swear my fingers recognize the rough fabric as Phil’s, on some instinctive level. The t-shirt is too bright, it doesn’t match me or how I feel, but maybe I can absorb some of the lightness. I can be a plant, like Phil is. Was. Is he still, if he isn’t here in our flat to absorb the sunlight filtering through the etched glass windows to land on our bed? To take in the bad things that escape my lips and turn them around into something good and refreshing and necessary? 

It’s not sunny today, so maybe it doesn’t really matter if Phil’s still a plant or not.

On my way past the door, my fingers hover over the umbrella, but they don’t close. _Maybe I need some rain as well_. Or maybe rain isn’t a thing I need, but something I deserve. 

I remember at the last second to lock the door behind me as I leave, not that someone couldn’t find their way in anyway. ‘ _Phil, if we leave the windows open, people will fucking rob us!_ ’ I remember shouting that, I remember the taste of the words on my tongue, bitter and sour and not at all kind. ‘ _I think if someone’s determined enough to climb seventeen stories to get in through our balcony, they deserve to rob us_ ,” Phil had just laughed it off.

I haven’t closed the windows.

\-------------

The rain doesn’t batter me into the ground, doesn’t do much more than stick in my hair and turn the bright red t-shirt a slightly darker shade around my shoulders and down my chest and stomach. It’s cool, mildly refreshing in only the way that something unexpectedly chilly can be. The store really isn’t that far, but it feels like miles, like I’m on a never-ending path under a dull grey sky that cries on me until I want to cry myself.

But I can’t. I have to go to the store. I have to get food so I can not die so I can take care of the plants so _they_ can not die. Phil would be so disappointed if they died.

It’s a quaint little shop, a bit like a farmer’s market, and Phil had been so _elated_ when I stumbled upon it on my way home one day and mentioned it to him. He’d gone on and on about rooftop gardens and how we should try to grow plants we could eat - his words, not mine - and I’d just sort of sat there and nodded. All I remember thinking was how much _work_ that would be, a bloody garden? Neither of us knew enough about plants for that. Phil had literally googled ‘ _easiest houseplants to own_ ’ and gone from there. 

He didn’t bring the garden up again.

I didn’t take my phone with me, but I’m suddenly wishing I had. _Maybe there’s a plant that’s easy to grow, like a starter garden plant_. I step over the threshold of the open door and into the shop, immediately dismissing the idea. _I can barely take care of myself, I can barely take care of these plants Phil left, could I really handle_ more _plants?_ I doubt it.

The owner doesn’t recognize me, I don’t think; Phil always wanted to go shopping, I never did. He told me about the man - Peter - a quiet, reserved guy with a moustache, but I can’t recall much else about him. I glance up to the front counter briefly as I pass, but he seems rather disinterested in me, eyes on a small book in his hand.

I don’t know where anything is, so I wander the store aimlessly, grabbing whatever looks edible and not too expensive - even here, a place Phil loved, he was conscious about overspending, and I feel I should be as well. 

Which is how I end up at the counter with a box of cereal, a bag of rice, some carrots and apples, and a bag of spinach. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll be doing with all those, but they’re edible and I can probably figure it out. Peter scans the items with scanner bars and packs them up, taps some buttons on the register for the carrots and apples, then I’m handing over my card on autopilot as he slides the bag toward me. 

By the time I’ve left, it’s stopped raining.

\---------

I bite into one of the apples as soon as I get back, and it’s crisp and a little sour in the way Phil always hated but I actually quite liked. I put the rest of the food away one-handed, still unsure what to do with it all but feeling a bit better for having it at the ready. I slide the cereal into the cabinet - cornflakes, which Phil had loved, or I suppose _still_ loves. He just doesn’t love them here. With me. Which would lead to him stealing the box in the middle of the night and leaving nothing for me by the morning. 

I leave the cabinet open in some weird and desperate attempt to lure him in, like he could magically know that, wherever he is, I’ve got a whole box of cereal out here ripe for the taking. Besides, it’s just me, and I was the only one who ever got annoyed by Phil leaving the cupboard open. 

I stare at the succulents then for a long time, letting them drift in and out of focus; I can’t decide if the edges of the green one are turning brown or not. And if they are, does that mean they need more water? Or do they need to dry out more? Succulents are a tough balance. 

I decide to water them just the tiniest bit in case they need it. Surely they’re better equipped to handle too much rather than not enough. I snort out a bitter laugh at the idea - I’m certainly not equipped to handle a dearth. Especially not of Phil. 

I spend the rest of the day in bed, alternating between answering emails that have no significance in my current frame of mind and watching a TV show I’ve never heard of because I can’t catch up on anything Phil and I were watching. It’s like the vast majority of my life has to be put on hold while I wait. 

Because _surely_ Phil will come back, right?

‘ _Dan, I’m leaving_ ,’ he’d said it so casually. And I’d sat around on my ass, staring at my laptop. ‘ _Yeah alright, go on then.’_ I hadn’t even said goodbye. I hadn’t said I loved him. That I _still_ love him - that hasn’t changed. The door had opened, clicked shut. I’d spent the rest of the day doing nothing important, procrastinating some work.

Phil hadn’t returned by dinner. I’d texted ‘ _hey you coming home or?_ ’ I’d meant it as a joke. 

‘ _I’m not_.’

\------------

I find myself staring at the ivy for the rest of the late afternoon. The sun - because we get the afternoon sun, which is ‘ _apparently so much better for the plants, did you know? Cause it’s warmer_ ’ - filters in and casts fragmented rays of light on the bed. I push the sheet off, then the jeans as well, far too warm. _Maybe I’m not cut out to be a plant_. I’ve always felt more at home under a cloudy mid-winter sky than a bright ray of sun.

But then, maybe it’s because I’d had _too much_ sun - ‘ _it says you don’t want the ficus under too much sun, that might kill it!_ ’ Phil had said, reading from his phone as I’d dragged the pot around the flat for nearly ten minutes, until he was fully satisfied with its corner and I was fully drenched in sweat.

Phil had always been my sun, bright and brilliant, and I’d have said just over a week ago that I could _definitely_ get too much of him. But maybe that was wrong. Or maybe it’s the solution that’s wrong. With a plant, you just move it to a place where it gets a bit less sun, you don’t toss it in a dark closet. It would die. _Yeah, and I definitely feel like I’m fucking dying._

On a whim, I google easy-to-grow vegetables. 

\---------

I end up at the same store the next day - after watering the philodendron - armed with some rudimentary knowledge about tomato plants and the life hack of growing them from a tomato slice. I’m not entirely sure I expect it to work, but it feels like something I can do. Like I can make an effort and maybe that’ll help fix this. 

Or at least it might help me forget.

Peter glances up when I walk in, but he’s right back to his book a moment later. I head to the produce section where I’m certain I saw a basket full of tomatoes. The website said one should do - one _slice_ , not even a whole tomato - so I pull the ripest, least bruised tomato from the basket and head back to the front. My feet feel unusually light.

“Just the tomato,” I say, as if I’m someone who makes conversation with random store owners. I drop my gaze when Peter looks up. 

“Just fifty pence, then,” he says, and I notice the Scottish accent at the same time I remember Phil mentioning it - it’s exactly like he’d described, low and deep and ‘ _so stereotypical, Dan, you have to hear him, I asked him to say something super Scottish last week, it was hilarious!_ ’. I can’t remember what he asked Peter to say.

I slide a coin across the table and exchange it for my tomato, then I’m out the door before I get it in my head to say anything else absurd, like ‘ _my boyfriend used to come here all the time, he asked you to say something with your accent one time, what was it?_ ’. Or would I have to say ex-boyfriend? I barely resist the urge to squash the tomato in my hand, to send my pent-up emotions somewhere other than my chest.

They go there anyway. It’s sunny out today.

\-----------

The tomato sits on the counter, right beside the purple succulent, for another day. I skirt around it in the kitchen, letting my gaze touch the spaces beside it and around it but never land on the thing directly; it has this sort of aura, I decide, that I’m meant to revere and respect. Like bowing at the foot of a monarch, but god forbid I actually _touch_ them.

It’s only once I’ve actually worked up the courage to take a knife and a chopping board out that I realize I have absolutely nothing to plant the damn thing in. I glare at the tomato dead-on, then, as I try to decide how to handle this. _It was meant to be easy! Chop a slice of tomato, grow a bigass tomato plant, eat a fucking lifetime supply of tomatoes._ I feel like the steps should’ve included buying a damn pot or something. 

I leave the chopping board out but return the knife to its drawer, mildly concerned for the safety of the other plants in the flat. As if they could up and turn sentient, and - like small children with no idea of the dangers - take the knife and slice up their plant siblings. _I think I’d be most worried about the spider plant, honestly_. Phil had always said it looked a bit shifty, a bit wayward, ‘ _like it’s itching for a fight_ ’.

He’d loved it anyway.

I head out into the still-bright afternoon sun, phone in hand to search for the nearest garden center - Phil had to get these things from _somewhere_ , surely they have pots and soil I can buy. After trying at least three different searches, I manage to find one within walking distance, though I can’t imagine how Phil managed to carry a fucking _ficus_ down seven blocks. He’d asked for help, I remember, but I wasn’t having a great day. He’d asked me to come along every other trip, too. ‘ _You can help with the next one, you can pick out a dan-odendron!_ ’ He’d said, like it was never big deal. I’m already dreading carrying a single pot and soil back.

At least I decided to swap for shorts, another pair of Phil’s. I think it’s the same ones he wore when he brought the first round of plants home. He’d called it the first, promised there’d be more. The ivy actually hadn’t come first. 

‘ _The garden place had a big sale on ivy, I know I_ just _bought the philodendron but I have a few of these too, I promise I’ll put them out on the balcony!_ ’ I’d just given him a look - honestly, the plants never really bothered me that much. Looking back, I’m not even sure why I did that. Why I made it a big deal. Why it mattered.

The moment the garden center comes into view, I understand why Phil loved it so much: it’s all bright colors, hues of green and blue and yellow that he’s always been drawn to. I remember telling him that one time, how interesting it is that he literally gravitates toward the same colors in his eyes. ‘ _Maybe that’s a thing!_ ’ He’d looked so intrigued by the concept. ‘ _But you don’t love brown much, do you?_ ’ And then crestfallen. I’d just snorted a laugh.

The inside of the garden center is a perfect match for the outside, and I pass an overflow of plants dripping out the front entrance on my way in. There’s that piece of me that’s suddenly craving the liveliness of the plants, that’s suddenly desperate to buy the whole damn store and ship it home with me, because how could I be anything but light and fulfilled whilst surrounded by so many living things?

But that’s not what I came for, and that’s far too much for me to handle. _One tomato plant. I can do that. I can do this_. I chant a silent encouragement as I steadfastly ignore the helper working their way around the edges of the store, watering some flowers. I have to tug my eyes away from the bright blooms. Phil would love them.

 _Except Phil isn’t here and I am, and I’m gonna grow a damn tomato plant and eat my own damn tomatoes that I grew, and that’s it._ I focus my gaze on the rest of the store, panning across green green green green until I land on brown. _Huh, maybe I am drawn to brown_. I push the thought aside and march over to the pots, letting my frustration out in the form of unnecessarily sharp and heavy movements. 

Unfortunately, my plant knowledge extends only about as far as my not-so-green thumb, so I’m sort of just staring at all the various sizes and varieties of pots when a throat clears behind me; I nearly jump, and I most definitely whirl around a bit too quickly.

“Can I help you with anything?” It’s the person I’d passed earlier, all bright smiles that match too well with the lightness of the store around us. 

“I’m uh,” I clear my throat, voice husky from disuse. “A tomato plant, I mean, I’m growing my own,” I drop my gaze, heat rushing to my cheeks. _I’m gonna fucking try, anyway_. “Which pot would be best?” I’m tempted to hold my breath as I wait for an answer.

“Okay! That sounds great. I’d start with a pot about this size?” They point out a rather ordinary, medium-sized pot, just a bit smaller than the one housing the ficus. “That should give it plenty of room to grow,” they add, and I nod as if I know. “Anything else?” They turn back with a bright grin.

“Soil?” I try, feeling moderately more comfortable now that I’ve not been immediately judged for my lack of gardening knowledge. 

“Something with high nitrogen will be good,” they mutter, a hand drifting to their chin, “here!” They take a few steps over to the rows of various potting mixes, pointing out one that lists a variety of things it contains, among which nitrogen makes an appearance. “This should do well, did you need anything else?” They ask again, offering a softer smile this time.

“No, thanks,” I try for a smile of my own, but I can tell my cheek barely tugs up. I hope they don’t think I was being rude. I busy myself by examining the pack of soil until I’m sure they’ve moved on, then I do my best not to look as though I’m struggling when I lift the bag and let it fall into the pot - it’s not nearly as heavy as I’d expected, but it’s certainly not _light_. 

I somehow manage to make it all the way to the checkout without having to stop for a break, though just barely, and I’m absolutely dreading the trip home. And up seventeen flights of stairs, _jesus fucking christ, is this worth it?_

“Did you find everything you needed today?” The woman asks, just as chipper as the other employee. Maybe even bubblier, if possible. _No wonder Phil had liked this place._ In spite of his anxieties about socializing, he’d have found these people welcoming and - as he said on more than one occasion - ‘ _really lovely, Dan, you should come sometime!_ ’. Every time he asked, I had another excuse at the ready, another reason why I’d go along next time instead.

“I did,” I nod as my items get scanned, then let the woman swipe my card. My arms ache already at the thought of having to pick up the pot again. But I’ve paid, and I need to see this through.

_I will plant a damn tomato slice, I will grow a fucking tomato plant, I will eat my own tomatoes._

I say the words like a mantra in my head, echoing the steadily increasing rate of my heartbeat in my chest and the ache in my arms and the sweat dripping down my back as I make my way home. 

\----------

Tomato plants, as it turns out, aren’t exactly _distracting_ in the way I’d hoped them to be. 

I’m not sure what I expected, now that I’m looking back, but it’s been a whole twenty-four hours and all I’ve managed to do is stare at the pot in the lounge and the wet spot of soil that conceals a buried tomato slice. I suppose, in retrospect, I should’ve _known_ it wouldn’t just immediately sprout up, that it wouldn’t magically require constant attention that would keep me from getting stuck in my own head. 

Wishful thinking, I guess.

But I don’t want to let the plant drift from the forefront of my mind, because then _other things_ can take over that space, things that are far worse than tomato plants. So I open my laptop and search for proper tomato plant care. 

It’s dark before I realize I’ve just spent literal hours googling tomatoes. _Wasted the time, really_ , my brain chimes in - all I’d found, at the end of this quest, was that tomatoes need deep, less frequent waterings and bright sunlight. I stand and make my way over to the pot, sat near the largest window aside from the one currently bordered by our bed.

Then I look up and frown at the door leading out to the balcony. _Surely that’d be the best place, if it needs sun_ , I argue with myself. ‘ _Plants are meant to be outside, Phil_ ,’ I remember that particular argument, when he’d insisted we get ‘ _just one more houseplant, Dan! We need it!_ ’ I’d rolled my eyes, told him to leave it be, we had enough plants inside as it was. That’s the day he’d come home with the philodendron. I don’t think I laughed at his ‘ _like Phil!_ ’ joke.

With a resigned sigh, I heft the pot up into my arms and waddle my way over to the door. At the last second, I realize how shit an idea that was, because now I’m hand-less and stuck beside the closed and locked door, and I’m forced to set the pot down again.

It’s not til I’m stood out on the balcony, surrounded by warm evening breeze and the even warmer scent of sun-drenched wet soil that I remember what else is out here.

The ivy had been an argument from start to finish. 

‘ _Phil, I said no more plants!_ ’ I still don’t know why I’d said that. I don’t know why it mattered. It didn’t. I just wanted something to fight about. Phil never got properly angry. Maybe he would, if it were over his plants. ‘ _They’ll stay outside! No more plants inside, I promise!’_ And he’d kept his promise, technically. I’m the one who broke it, bringing the tomato plant that hasn’t yet grown into the flat. 

I’d begrudgingly allowed the ivy to stay. He’d asked to let it inside. ‘ _We can just crack the windows,_ ’ he’d said, and I’d argued we’d be robbed. ‘ _Please, Dan? It just wants to be around the other plants!_ ’ He’d asked again, as if that were a completely normal thing to suggest, that ivy was sentient, that it could think and feel and have _desires_. Maybe it can. I think I’d just stared, dumbstruck at the idea of plants with intelligence. And then I’d remembered Phil calling himself a plant with feelings. 

‘ _Fine_.’ I’d relented with an eye roll and a lot of huffing. Phil had just grinned, cracked the windows open, guided a few of the wayward vines inside and encouraged them to grow against the panes with careful words and gentle touches.

I’m still standing out on the balcony, tomato plant set at my feet, when my phone rings. Properly _rings_ , as if anyone with any common sense would _call_ me instead of sending an email or a text. Not to mention it’s nearly- well, it’s late. Certainly after any normal business hours that I’d bother responding during.

I meander back inside, leaving the door open, thinking to catch the end of whoever’s calling and just send an email tomorrow. Or wait for them to email me. Or text. Or maybe it’s a telemarketer, nothing of actual importance, and I can just ignore it. I notice the name the split second before my screen goes dark again.

Then I’m rushing the last few steps to the breakfast bar, fingers fumbling on my phone in a desperate attempt to rewind time and answer, because _Phil’s finally calling back, oh my god, oh my god oh-_

It’s like handing a child a complex mechanical device, the way I fail miserably at unlocking my phone, at finding the missed call, at dialing back. My breathing shakes nearly as much as my hand does, my ears ringing in tune with the ringing on the line.

“ _Dan?_ ” Phil sounds out of breath. I think I am, too, or at least I can’t quite recall how breathing words. I swallow to hold back a sob.

“Y-yeah,” I finally manage, biting hard into my lip. I’m too afraid to move from this spot, from the slightly awkward hunched-over position I’m stood in, as if moving will shatter the moment, will split and splinter everything into a cruel joke, a nightmarish dream of almost-realities and my name on Phil’s tongue.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” _Shit, do I sound like I’ve been crying?_ I only said a word, but it’d been stuttered, and it’s not like he’s never heard me cry before. Not that I’m actually crying at this exact moment, but I’m definitely on the verge of tears. My throat’s already closed up, but I’m tempted to force something out, to say I’m alright and do the whole nonchalant, ‘yeah I’m good, what about you?’ casual thing that exes do with each other. Because that’s what you do, right? 

“No.” Somehow, that comes out instead, the same resigned, defeated tone from when El had come over. _I haven’t talked to her since._ I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if I should text her. Except then Phil’s talking again.

“ _Oh_.” Okay, so he’s not _talking_ , but it’s a sound, a noise, one I can connect to Phil and his voice and his lips and his throat and _him_ and it sends a spike of bittersweet pain through my chest. I clamp a hand over my mouth to hide a choked almost-sob.

There’s silence for a long time, long enough that I’m worried he hung up.

“Phil?” I can hear the hoarse desperation in my tone, the need to know that he’s still there, on the other end. That he hasn’t left me again.

“ _Yeah?_ ” It’s a question, that lifting at the end of the word, but I don’t know what to say. _What does he want me to say?_ I realize with an ache that I have _no idea_. Sure, I know everything about him, but that isn’t the same as _knowing_. As _understanding_. 

“The plants miss you,” I say after a long moment full of tension and deafening, overwhelming quiet. It’s the only thing I can think of, the only thing I know matters to him. Bitterly, masochistically, my brain chimes in that _I_ certainly don’t matter to him.

“ _They’re okay?_ ” He asks, genuine concern in his tone. If I weren’t already well past my emotional limit, I might be a bit offended. But I don’t have the energy to be pissed off at the insinuation I wouldn’t be capable of handling of the literal _easiest_ houseplants to own. _To be fair, I almost_ wasn’t _capable._

“They’re okay,” I promise, “I’m taking good care of them.” There’s an audible pause, then, and I imagine Phil on the other end - wherever he is - nodding. Forgetting that we’re on the phone, that I can’t see him. The ghost of a smile touches my lips.

“ _Okay_.” Phil says, and it sounds like goodbye. It sounds like the words he said before, the ones I didn’t pay enough attention to until they were the only things he left me with, the last things I had from him. Until all I could do was play them on repeat in my head into the early hours of the morning, wishing I had noticed. Wishing I had done something. Said something different. _Been_ different. _Maybe that’s it, though. Maybe I’m just not good for Phil_. Like those tiny bugs I read about that feed off tomato plants and rot them to the core.

“ _I’m_ -”

“Wait!” I interrupt the impending goodbye. “I got- uh, I got another plant, a tomato plant.” The words feel forced into the conversation, awkward and sticky like they don’t belong there, but I don’t want to lose him yet. I want this time to be different. I want to make it different. Even if it doesn’t fix things.

“ _You did?_ ” Now his tone has gone full-on incredulous, somewhere between if I’d told him I took a dip in the Thames and if I told him I went skydiving. A self-satisfied grin finds its way through my frozen muscles and up to my cheeks.

“I did. I’m actually growing it myself,” I let just the tiniest hint of pride seep into my voice. _I’m growing a damn tomato plant._ The words must shock Phil enough, as he’s gone silent on the other end of the line.

“ _Is that where you were for three days?_ ” Phil almost sounds... _angry_? My brows furrow, and I stare hard at the counter. _Is he mad I got another plant?_ I wonder if he thinks I’m replacing him. I wonder if that’s what I thought whenever he came home with a new plant. I decide I strongly dislike that thought.

“I was- I mean, I was at home?” I’m not sure what he’s implying, where he thinks I was. I spin on a heel, body freed by the strange turn this conversation’s taken, and glance around the flat on some unexpected urge to confirm that yes, I have in fact been in our flat for the past few days. _Unless this is some alternate dimension, which would actually explain a lot..._ I almost say it.

“ _Oh, I just- you didn’t call._ ” Phil says, and he’s not wrong. I didn’t, I realize. I’d left him voicemails every single day - _several_ times a day - and pages of texts since he left. Until I’d woken up and remembered the plants needed me - needed _someone_ , but I was the only one there. Until I’d found some purpose in the plants. A bitter bile rises in my throat, the urge to spit passive-aggressive words mixing with the deep sorrow that still refuses to release me, turning my chest into a caustic mess of emotions. None of them seem right.

“The plants needed me.” It’s a safe zone, I think, to stick with the plants. Even now, I let myself gravitate toward the spider plant, toward the pale leaves that stick out at all angles - the same leaves I’d been so quick to swat away, to tell Phil they were in the way and bothersome and I couldn’t walk from the fridge to the sofa without detouring around the hanging basket. ‘ _They just want to say hello!_ ’ He’d laughed, then. He was always happy when plants were involved.

There’s a long silence again, but I don’t know if it’s tense or not. I don’t know how _I_ feel, so I’m not sure how to read the situation. _Would I even be able to guess how Phil feels?_

“I’m going now, okay?” Phil says it so softly I wonder if I imagined it, if my overwhelmed brain decided to throw the whole universe off balance and skew reality until Phil’s stood beside me, whispering quietly in my ear. Maybe it’s a soft, warm morning and he’s headed out, leaving me in bed - but he’d be grinning, in this reality, he’d press a kiss to my temple and climb over me and out of bed and I’d watch him leave and I’d allow myself the luxury of letting my eyes drift shut because, in this specific, false, perfect reality, I’d be sure Phil would return.

Frantic responses roll around in my head, all the nights full of tears and desperation and _emptiness_ where I’d sat and wondered what I’d say, if I could go back. If I could hear those words again, what string of sounds could I come up with that would change reality. That would fix things. I’d written litanies of pleading, desperate apologies for things I didn’t know I’d done wrong, novel-length declarations of every emotion in my heart, every reason to love him that I’d failed to remind him of. So _so_ many things I’d have said. 

I don’t say any of them.

“I don’t want you to,” I say instead; _somehow_ I manage - and really, I’ve no idea _how_ I manage it - to keep my voice even. “But okay.”

The line disconnects.

\-------------

The next few days feel like being dipped in ice water and then tossed in a fire: I’m torn between desperately wanting to call Phil again - to sit with that ringing in my ear and hope beyond all hope that he’ll pick up this time - and literally forgetting my phone even exists.

It’s a day full of the latter when I finally realize the annoying buzz isn’t coming from somewhere inside my head - or, god forbid, from a fly that’s drifted in through the openings in the window. _That’s what I should’ve argued about,_ I think in a way that feels disconnected and not at all serious, _who gives a shit about robbers, we’re letting all the fucking bugs in_. 

Except it isn’t bugs, it’s my phone, and I set my laptop to the side on my bed and leave the still warmth of the afternoon sun to see who the hell-

Except the name flashing up from the screen is _Phil_ , of _course_ it’s Phil, and my breath catches in my throat as I reach for the phone. 

“Hello?” I say it like I don’t know who’s on the other end, like I get actual calls all the time, so who might this be, if you please?

“ _Dan?_ ” It’s a question again, like he’s not entirely sure it’s me.

“Phil?” I ask it back, trying to let a little humor into my tone. It probably sounds fake. It does to my ears, anyway; my heart feels tight and constricted in my chest.

“ _Oh, uh, yeah. Are you- I mean, are you alright? You still haven’t…_ ” he trails off, but I get the gist.

“Still not okay, but the plants are,” I try to keep my tone light, joking. Banter. _I can do this._ I’m not really sure if it’ll help, but maybe if I keep things light - _if I don’t shout at him, if I’m kinder and gentler_ \- it’ll get better. We’ll get better. There’s a pause.

“ _Is the philodendron getting enough water?_ ” He asks, and I’m caught between an eye roll and a smirk - of _course_ it is, I’m not- _stop. This is what gets me into trouble, being snarky for literally no reason_. I inhale a breath, exhale it.

“It is, it misses you though.” I tack that on. It’s the closest I can manage to saying that _I_ miss him, because really I don’t want to cry. I haven’t cried in so many days, it would be nice to keep that streak going a bit longer.

“ _Will you send a picture?_ ” He says it softly, like he’s afraid it’s asking too much. I whirl on a heel and crouch beside the small pot, capturing the green leaves on my phone and sending them to him immediately.

“There, just sent,” I let a small smile creep up my cheeks - a genuine one - at the image in my head of Phil pulling the phone away from his ear, clicking on the notification, grinning at the picture. In my head, it’s a bittersweet moment, and he’ll whisper that he misses it as well. That he misses _me_. He’s always been better at reading between the lines in my words than I have with him. Frankly, I’ve been downright obtuse. _I won’t be anymore, though. I can be better than that._

“ _Thank you_.” That’s all he says, then we’re both silent again. If I listen really closely, I’m certain I can hear his breaths. I try to time mine to match. “ _How’s the tomato plant?_ ” He finally asks after a while, after we’re perfectly in sync. 

“There’s a little sprout, do you want to see?” I offer, elation building in my chest - not for him to come home, that’s a far and distant hope I’m not quite ready to let myself hope just yet. But he’s _interested_. He _cares_. 

“ _I should go, but yeah, send a picture_ ,” he sounds lighter, if that’s a thing that a person can sound, and I smile even as he hangs up.

\-----------

Today is a bad day. It’s raining.

To be clear, it’s not a bad day _because_ it’s raining. Nor is it raining because it’s a bad day. The two just coexist in my head, companionable facts. In place of sun, the dull thrum of rain sneaks in under the windows, soft white noise to keep my thoughts fuzzy.

Phil didn’t call yesterday, in spite of my desperate, far-too-optimistic calculations telling me he should, he _would_ , maybe just late. So I’d stayed up waiting, until the pitch black hope of night faded into a pale grey despair of early morning. My phone hasn’t left my side - not that I’ve gone anywhere to warrant it needing to follow - but it’s becoming a tangible weight in the bed, a black hole sucking me down and threatening to swallow me whole.

I’m tempted to throw it across the room, shatter it into a million pieces so it can’t keep this grip on me. _Not like Phil would care anyway._

I exhale a sigh at the ceiling, trying to breathe out my own idiotic thoughts. I know they’re absurd, childish and petty. I know they’re not helping. They want to stay in my lungs, though, and I’m too exhausted to properly fight them. I didn’t sleep.

The ivy mocks me from the window, a dark, lush green coloring the corner of my vision. It seems perfectly fine with Phil gone. I wonder if Phil misses it, or if the indifference is mutual. I wonder why I care. _Except I know, of course I know._

With another sigh, I push myself up from the bed and head to the kitchen. Spider plant gets water. _Dan gets water too, or I’ll die of dehydration or something._ It’s not til I’ve downed a full glass that my stomach starts working properly again, reminding me with a series of rude growls that, unlike a plant, I can’t survive on sunlight and water alone. 

My hand hovers over the cardboard box of cereal, moments away from pulling it out, when I’m abruptly reminded that, oh, yes, the complete idiot that I am, I entirely forgot to buy _milk_ to have with my cereal. So either I’m eating it like Phil would or I’m eating something else. 

I eat something else.

The apple leaves a sour flavor on my tongue as I water the spider plant. It looks... _okay_ , somewhere between thriving and dying, which I suppose is the best I can ask for. _Same,_ I send a telepathic signal that the plant will never receive because I can’t actually send it and plants wouldn’t understand me anyway. 

I get the strange feeling that Phil would argue that point.

‘ _No, see, they’re like dogs,_ ’ I imagine him saying, hands spread wide as he prepares to captivate me with his point. ‘ _They get like, the_ feeling _of what you’re saying, that’s why people talk to them!_ ’ In this imaginary scenario, I’d chuckle, shake my head. Try not to let it show _too_ much that I’m so enamored with his mind. Or maybe I should let it show. Either way, I’d gesture vaguely at the ficus, the philodendron, the spider plant. ‘ _Go on, then_ ,’ I’d suggest, still on the edge of laughter, ‘ _what do you have to tell them?_ ’

I’m not sure I’d know what to say, if it were me.

 _That’s a lie. I’d talk about the only thing that matters. I’d tell them about Phil._ Except they already know Phil, so what would be the point? 

On my way back to the sink, I pause. _The tomato plant doesn’t._ It’s still just the tiniest sprout, although a second shoot of green has popped up as well - the website said I could expect that, given all the seeds in the tomato slice. The tomato plant doesn’t know Phil at all.

I move in a haze, leaving the cup at the sink and heading toward the balcony door. Rain still splatters, threatening to drench me, but if I stay far enough back that only the sound of the storm can assault me, I can stay dry.

I lower myself slowly, carefully, until I’m sat cross-legged in front of the tomato plant. It feels silly, just the concept of speaking to a plant, but I suppose it’s raining and nobody would hear me anyway. 

“Hey little guy,” I start off, then scrunch my brow and shake my head. _‘Hey little guy’? What, is it a two-year-old kid I’m talking to?_ Although that might at least make things less weird, if I pretend it is. I press my lips together.

“I thought you should know, uh, about someone,” _breathe, slow steadying breaths, you can do this_. “His name is Phil, and he loves plants very much.” It’s the only thing I know beyond a doubt to be true. I want to say he loves _me_ very much, I want _so_ desperately for that to be a thing I hold in solid confidence as well, but it isn’t. I can’t. 

“But he left - and no, I don’t know if he’s coming back, but I think he would like you quite a lot,” my lip curls up in a shaky grin, tears blurring the edge of my vision but not falling, not yet. “He’s a lot like you, actually.” I huff out a breath of almost-laughter, something soft and bittersweet. “I called him a plant, once,” my smile grows just a bit at the memory, “and he said he basically was, only more complicated. With _feelings_.” I huff out another laugh, more genuine this time.

The tiny sprouts of the tomato plant just wiggle in the stormy air, stray droplets darkening the soil around them. 

For the second time today, I don’t move for hours on end. But my voice has gone hoarse by the time it’s dark, by the time the black-grey of the clouded sky has turned into the black-black of a nighttime storm and I can’t quite see the tomato plant because I never turned the outside light on. It listens, though, if plants can do that. Phil would say they can.

\-----------

I wake aching and stiff, joints protesting the simple awareness of existence. I feel quite the same, wishing I could sink back into the dreamless, empty sleep I’m being dragged out of against my will.

The world filters into focus around me, a mess of slate-blue-greys and industrial tones that blend to form a backdrop of cloudy skies and uneventfully modern buildings.

Apparently, I fell asleep on the balcony. Talking to a plant.

Before I can let myself properly digest that, _really_ acknowledge the level of idiocy and absurdity involved in allowing that to happen, I shove against the concrete beneath me and stand. Which, in spite of the dismal other option I had to choose from - staying there on the ground indefinitely - feels like a pretty shit choice; I’m immediately assaulted by a pounding ache in my head and pretty much every other part of my body, although my head definitely feels the worst.

 _At least_ , I consider _, the rain has stopped_. 

I cast a brief glance to the drenched soil in the pot of the tomato plant, the bowed stems of the two- _wait, wait wait, is that-_

Before I can think on it, I’m rushing to the edge of the balcony, water seeping into the hem of my sweatpants. As if that really matters. There’s _another_ tiny sprout, pushing itself up and free of the soil beside its two taller siblings. A grin splits my face.

Okay, maybe talking to plants _is_ a thing.

I manage to keep my smile in place for the thirty seconds it takes me to reenter the flat, then it’s drooped down to a far less exciting flat line - not that I’m not thrilled at my progress, at the tiny tomato plant’s progress, more that I’m the only person to be thrilled about it. _It deserves more praise than I can give._ Hell, I can barely keep my motivation up enough to _water_ it - although, at least for now, it’s not lacking for water - let alone provide the hype that the plant deserves. 

It’s funny, Phil had been just as excited when the ficus had sprouted some new leaves. ‘ _Look, it’s growing!_ ’ ‘ _Yeah, Phil, I can see that,_ ’ I’d thought I was humoring him, glancing over briefly to find him grinning from his spot beside the tree. ‘ _Plants tend to do that, when you don’t immediately kill them_.’ I’d turned back to my laptop. I don’t even remember, now, what had been so important I couldn’t spare a minute to show some proper excitement.

And now I’m left alone, trying to be excited for two people, because that’s what the little tomato plant deserves, right? _It deserves support and care and nurturing and_ \- and a cynical, rational piece of me reminds me it’s _just a plant_ , but if that’s the case, why do I actually feel good? Why, for the first time in over a week - maybe longer, if I’m being totally honest - do I feel a genuine thread of happiness weaving its way through the bittersweetness coiling in my chest?

My phone buzzes. Once and short. _Text_.

I rush forward, just in case, on the very off chance…

_**Phil:** _ **__**_Everything okay?_

I exhale shakily, my fingers tapping at the screen as I try to decide how to respond.

 _ **Dan:**_ _your houseplants are thriving_

 _But_ I’m _not_ , I don’t say. I don’t need to, I think he knows. But plants are safe. I snap a picture of the philodendron - really, it’s the only houseplant that _looks_ as though it’s still thriving. I don’t count the ivy.

_**Phil:** Tell them I say hello!_

I grin down at the screen.

_**Dan:** i will_

Temptation tugs at my fingers, begs them to type the question I want to ask, the only thing my shattered heart desperately needs to know.

_are you coming home?_

I delete it the moment I’ve typed it, hoping Phil won’t notice. Won’t ask. I’m not sure I could lie, if he asked.

When his typing notification pops up, I suck in a breath. Hold it. Nearly thirty seconds later, it disappears. My lungs hurt. I don’t exhale.

It’s not til everything’s turned to fire in my chest that I breathe out, allow myself to suck in the oxygen I need. Apparently, whatever Phil had thought to say, he’d changed his mind. 

‘ _Dan?’_ I remember his voice had been tentative, unusual for him. He’d tapped my shoulder, only strange in that it’d been such a light touch, not the all-encompassing _Philness_ he would normally attack me with. ‘ _Can it wait like, five minutes?_ ’ I’d dragged an earbud out, lips pressed into a line - some email or other, I’d been right in the middle of it.

‘ _Never mind._ ’

\------------

Three days, on the dot. _You’re getting predictable, Lester,_ I smirk at the phone; as long as I leave him be, he’ll wait three days, then message me. Or call. I prefer the calls. 

“ _Dan?_ ” That’s not to say it’s been _easy_ , knowing that maybe, just _maybe_ if I give in and call him a day earlier, there’s an impossibly slim chance he’ll pick up. That I’ll get to hear my name on his tongue sooner. But I try to practice patience. Maybe I’m not his sunlight, maybe I’m his water - either way, I don’t want to be too much for him.

“ _Phil_ ,” I breathe his name like a fucking prayer, I swear, despite my best attempts not to; I end up doing it every time, like I’m holding back this wave of emotion most days, but I can’t keep my desperation in control once the floodgates have opened.

“ _How are you?_ ” He asks, just like he does every time.

“The plants are great,” I say, just like I always do. It’s gone on for two weeks now, this game: he’ll ask me how I am. I’ll tell him the plants are fine. We’ll both studiously ignore that I’m _not_ fine and discuss the plants for a few minutes. The call will end. Or Phil won’t respond to my most recent text. Either way, he always ends the conversation.

“ _How’s the spider plant? I saw that sneaky tendril going over the edge of the basket in the last picture_ ,” he almost laughs, more a huff of a breath, but I pick up on it. I could name every sound that fell from his lips without thinking. I wonder if he knows that. I wonder if I didn’t tell him. _I can’t very well do that now, though, can I?_

“Yeah, it’s trying to grow legs and run away,” I force out a chuckle, staring at the growth from the plant in question. I’d googled it, like it was some tumor or something, but it turns out to just be natural sort of ‘spiderettes’, little spawns from the main plant. The website said I could plant it in its own separate pot, if I wanted. I don’t know how I feel about that. “It misses you, I guess.”

_I miss you, I know for sure._

“ _Maybe I’ll, uh, have to come say hi soon_.” The words rush from Phil’s mouth and into my ear, rattling around in my head. I think I suck in a breath, but I’m not quite sure. I don’t even know that it matters. 

“ _If you want, I mean, if that’s okay, I don’t want to impose-_ ”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, the sudden backtracking spurring my brain into action. _Create words, dammit, don’t lose this chance._ “That would, uh, be great actually. I’m sure the plants would appreciate it.” Hope holds my heart on a tightrope, balanced and tense and right on the edge of disaster. Of another let-down. Of more disappointment, the kind that hurts twice as bad because it’s been held out in front of you and pulled away before you could reach it.

“ _Okay_ ,” Phil says. I wait, listen, in case there’s more. _Are you coming home?_ I want to ask. I want to hear him say it. ‘ _Yes, I’m coming home. I miss you._ ’ I imagine it with so much of my heart that I can almost hear it, that it almost manifests into real, actual sounds in my ear. 

“ _I’ll text you about it. Bye, Dan._ ” He says instead, and the line clicks. It’s not enough, but it’s something. A beam of sunlight peeking through the endless sea of clouds, just long enough to give hope to the tiny sprout in my chest. _Maybe this can be fixed_.

\------

 _Today._ Phil said today. He asked, actually, as if I’d had the capacity to say anything but _yes_. I suppose I could’ve said ‘ _yes, please, as soon as you can, I miss you so badly_ ’. But I stuck with ‘yes’. Seemed more appropriate, given our... _whatever_. I don’t know. Our circumstances? Situation?

“It’s a bit hard to explain.” I’m sat on the balcony again, back to the crawling ivy and facing the _five_ little sprouts that’ve grown up in the tomato plant pot - properly grown, nearly as tall as my hand, although one little stem has shot past the others by several inches. 

“See, I don’t know exactly _why-_ ” I break off mid-sentence as the leaves tilt toward me in the breeze. “ _Fine_ , I was being a shit boyfriend.” I admit. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, even if it’s just to a plant. But the truth wraps like a python around my lungs, squeezing out explanations and excuses that desperately want to join my admission in the air. 

I lean heavily against the open window behind me.

“I was rude and inconsiderate and I never put him first. He was always so patient and kind and caring and I just…” I gesture vaguely. “Like, if he was grass, I just stomped all over him.” I find myself using lots of nature analogies whilst talking to the tomato plant. “And he kept trying to grow anyway, until...I guess I just made it impossible for him to grow.” I hate that plant analogies end up being so accurate.

The tomato plant, for its part, drifts slightly on an unexpected gust of wind.

“I _know_ ,” I can feel the argument rising in my chest. “But he was just a _lot_ sometimes. Too much sunlight,” I tilt my head at the plant, a silent reminder that we’ve been over this, we’ve done this particular analogy before. As if it should remember. I hope it does. I hope it remembers every single word I’ve ever said, especially about Phil. I want it to know him the way the other plants do. I want it to recognize him when he comes round.

“I should get back inside, make sure the flat’s not a complete disaster.” I shift and stand, offering the bright green sprouts my best attempt at a smile; it’s tough, warring against the nerves that haven’t stopped buzzing in my stomach since I got Phil’s text yesterday.

In spite of my words, the flat’s rather clean - Phil had always been the one leaving his things around, forgetting to close cabinets, letting the bed stay a mess after a long lie-in or slow, sleepy morning sex. My heart quite literally _aches_ for how badly I want all that back - the frustration of tripping over a blanket left on the floor, the annoyance of wayward socks, the mess of crumpled sheets that served more to remind me of the reason behind them than to truly bother me. Really, genuinely, my irritation had been so superficial, more just an excuse to feign exasperation.

But everything my eyes land on speaks of tidiness, of my existence without Phil: things kept neat, put away, disconnected and separate. No _life_ , that’s what I see. A place not lived in, not inhabited. I don’t quite feel like I’m inhabiting it. The balcony, maybe, because of the tomato plant, but everything else... _empty_. It makes me feel empty.

The knock at the door startles me from my melancholy - although I’m honestly more startled that Phil didn’t bother using his key. I know he took it with him. I can list _every single thing_ he took. Every piece of him that’s missing. I move to the door on autopilot, turn the handle. Hesitate for just a moment, because I don’t know if I can do this, suddenly, if I can see him and _not_ break down completely. I open the door anyway.

“Hey, Dan,” Phil smiles, and it’s tight and uncertain, but I can’t be bothered to care. He’s _here_ , actually really _here_ , stood right in front of me. Every single cell in my body aches to be closer, to feel his arms around me and his chest pressed against mine because _fuck_ I could really use a hug right now.

“Hey,” I say, offering an equally tight smile. I step back, in some desperate hope to control my own body, to sever the magnetic draw of Phil. I watch him step inside. The red jumper, the one I’d loved so much - _did I ever tell him that?_ \- brings an immediate warmth into the space, like the whole flat knew something had been missing. That it’s returned. That _he’s_ returned.

_For how long, though?_

He takes slow, hesitant steps, eyes moving around the flat like it’s new, like he’s never been here before. I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak, waiting for his judgment. He gravitates toward the ficus and I follow, though I keep my distance. _Oh god, it’s too droopy, isn’t it? I’ve been watering it too much. Or maybe not enough, I don’t-_

“Hey big guy!” Phil chuckles, dropping into an easy tone. _Oh, yeah, okay, I’m fucking jealous of a plant, am I?_ It makes sense, on a weird, Phil’s-mind sort of level, and I have to try not to sigh; for a solid three seconds, though, I’m worried I _have_ with the way Phil turns toward me. Takes a step. Then another.

And then he’s past me, on and into the kitchen, letting his fingers trail along the leaves of the spider plant.

“Were you going to replant this one?” He asks, hand lifting the little spiderette as he glances back over his shoulder at me. The words stab at my heart: was _I_ going to do that, as if the plant isn’t his as well. Or maybe isn’t his _at all_.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” I ask in return. He looks back to the plant, the miniature version held up in his hand.

“I’m not sure, maybe it’s not ready to leave just yet.” He says, letting it fall to dangle under the basket again. The philodendron captures his attention before I can properly consider what he might’ve meant by what he said. _Or maybe I’m just searching for meaning where there isn’t any_.

“Oh my gosh, I forgot how _green_ it is!” He’s crouched down, grinning brightly in a way that quite literally stops my heart. _I want to be the reason for that._ Belatedly, I wonder if I _ever_ was. If I ever made an effort to be. _He deserves me making an effort_.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I offer, and he stands; a look of mild surprise arches his brows up his forehead, so I try to keep my expression steady. Sincere. _Things can change, I can be better._

“Some coffee, if we have it?” My heart leaps out of my chest at the ‘ _we_ ’, but I turn to hide the hope I can feel blossoming across my features. _I can’t get ahead of myself._

“Yeah, we do,” I say to the cabinet as I open it, pulling out the packets - instant coffee, which he loved and I always teased him for. I switch on the kettle, then stare steadfastly at it, ignoring the adage about watching a pot. Or maybe I do it on purpose, in the hopes it’ll keep Phil here a bit longer. _Whoops, kettle just isn’t boiling, can’t leave without your coffee, guess you’ll just have to stay._

“The ivy’s grown.” Phil comments, and I lose my focus, turning to find him stood over our bed - _our_ bed - and staring up at the etched glass windows.

“Has it?” I hadn’t noticed. In fact, I’d made quite a concerted effort _not_ to notice the growth of Phil’s most favorite plant; he looks almost entranced, staring up like it’s a work of art he’s trying to decipher the meaning of. I take a few steps over, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him.

“You kept the windows open.” He says after a long moment. I’m not really sure what I expected him to say, but that definitely wasn’t it. I glance between him and the windows, the tiny cracks at the bottom where the ivy’s invaded.

“I did,” I confirm, because I’m not sure what else to say. Somehow, I think ‘ _it felt wrong to close them, to cut off the vines, to cut away something you loved_ ’ comes across a bit too strong - whatever this is, it needs slow tending. I can’t overdo it.

“Can I see the tomato plant?” He asks after a few moments of silence have passed. I don’t know how close I’m allowed, what’s acceptable now, so I step back.

“Yeah, of course,” I lead him to the balcony, nerves stirring again in my stomach - not that they ever really left. I step out, into my spot between the windows and the pot. Phil hesitates in the doorway. 

“Tomato plant, meet Phil,” I say, and I realize my voice has taken that softer tone it tends to do when I’m talking to the plant. “Phil, tomato plant,” I gesture between them, a weird sort of hope battling with my anxiety. I can’t decide if I’m more worried Phil won’t like the plant or the plant won’t like Phil, but both feel immensely important and simultaneously hilariously insignificant, a childish thing to be concerned about.

“Hello!” Phil steps forward, crouches beside the pot. In spite of my rational, logical brain, I’m holding my breath. Waiting. As if the stems could somehow indicate their acceptance of Phil, the leaves could smile at him or frown. 

But nothing happens, the plant doesn’t magically gain sentience. 

“That’s so cool, Dan,” Phil enthuses as he stands, smile still bright on his face. I nod absently - the moment feels like a disappointment, like _something_ was meant to happen, but it didn’t. We stand there for what I’m sure is an eternity as my brain attempts to dissect the situation, attempts to figure out where everything went wrong. 

Then Phil clears his throat, breaks the moment, and I realize I’ve just been sort of staring. Silent.

“Your coffee?” I ask, gesturing at the door and following him back inside. The kettle’s steaming, but Phil’s already on his way over. He moves through the kitchen comfortably. Like he belongs. _Because he does_.

“Thanks,” Phil says as he rounds the counter, pulls out his usual chair and sits at the breakfast bar. I notice he picked his favorite mug, the Florida one. I just shrug - all I’d done was heat up the water. Nothing worth thanking me over.

There’s a beat of silence that feels far longer than it is, because my mind is whirring with desperation and fear - desperation to start some kind of conversation, to find a way to keep Phil here just a little longer, but _fear_ for that same conversation because what if he asks how I am? I can’t very well hide behind the plants, he _knows_ they’re okay. It’s not that I would _lie_ about how I am, but I really don’t want to lay my heart bare right now. I don’t want to start crying, not when things are hesitantly light and comfortable right now.

_Oh my god, I’m an idiot._

“How are you?” I blurt out, and Phil’s lips pause on the mug, his eyes widen as he looks up at me. “I never ask,” I clarify, voice low as I bite my lip. _Wow, I’m just the epitome of the inconsiderate boy- well, whatever we are._ Phil lowers his coffee, sets it down. His eyes follow the movement, dropping from me to the table, and I don’t miss the way his lips twist. I know that look, even if I wish I didn’t. _Whatever it is, you can tell me anything._

“I’m...not really sure.” He says after a long moment, gaze never lifting from the counter. His finger taps an anxious rhythm on the side of the mug. 

“Can I...I don’t know, help or anything?” I offer, tentative as I step closer, pull the other chair from under the breakfast bar and perch myself on the edge. Phil turns, swiveling toward me, but he doesn’t look up. I drink in every detail, every single line and curve and angle of his body. I don’t know how much longer I’ll get to see him. As I watch, a small, sad smile curls his lip.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know you’d be much help right now,” he says, and it doesn’t come out rude but it hurts all the same. _I’m the reason he’s not okay._ That much is blindingly obvious. He lifts his mug, takes a long drink.

“Let me know if that changes,” I respond, the only safe thing I can think to say. I can’t very well _apologize_ if he isn’t blaming me, can I? He didn’t outright say it was my fault, so what can I even do? Even as I have the thought, it shifts uneasily in my stomach, and I can feel the apology begging to be spoken.

But then Phil’s standing, going round to the sink and dumping the remains of his coffee, and I swallow hard. My words don’t come out. I wonder if they ever will, if I’ll ever get over myself for _five fucking seconds_ and say what he so obviously wants to hear. Because it _is_ obvious, isn’t it? When you do something wrong, you apologize for it. Except he’s offering me a soft smile over his shoulder and reaching for the door handle and I can’t even remember how my _legs_ work let alone how to make my tongue to form the words and how to force my brain to get over its absurd self-righteousness long enough to actually say I’m sorry.

“I think I should head out,” Phil’s voice is soft and kind, _heartbreakingly_ kind because he’s leaving and it fucking _hurts_. 

“Wait!” I manage just as he’s stepping out, my lungs finally producing enough air to make sounds. He stills, turns back toward me, brows lifted just slightly. I want to capture this image of him, lips parted, blue eyes wide and hopeful, because I can already feel it in my chest that I won’t be able to say what he wants.

“I really like that jumper.” 

\-------------

“I fucked it up, porked the whole thing,” I grumble to the tomato plant. It’s not done anything but glare back at me since I sat down right after Phil left nearly three hours ago. All I’ve actually managed to do is come to the conclusion that I failed miserably at whatever test that was - Phil had obviously come over, hoping to hear me apologize, and I’d just told him I _liked his fucking jumper_.

The tallest of the stems waves in the light breeze.

“Well it’s not like _you_ were any help,” I stick my foot out and nudge the pot, frowning. The whole plant shakes with the small movement. “I mean, _fuck_ ,” I groan, leaning my head back against the window, “I was _so close_. I should’ve just apologized.” Even saying that out loud sends a spear through my heart, a spike of pain that I hate and deserve every ounce of. 

A long silence follows, mostly full of me internally lamenting my stupidity, my inability to just _say sorry_ \- although, now that it’s in my head, what am I even apologizing for? For not being a good boyfriend? For being rude, for being downright _mean_? _For being me._

 _No_ , I stare hard at the tomato plant, the sprouts of leaves that _I_ grew. That grew because I took care of them. _For being who I_ was _, for not changing, for not realizing. For not being the person he deserves_.

Except I’m trying, I can be that person. I _want_ to be that person, I want to make him grin the way he had just seeing his plants, I want him to know he can ask me for anything, that I _want_ him to have whatever he wants. That he deserves it. _He deserves the whole fucking world_.

But first, he deserves an apology.

\-----------

I know I’m breaking my rule, but I hope it won’t matter. _Please please please…_ I can’t tell if the ringing in my ears is because of the phone or just my nerves.

“ _Dan?_ ” I have to control my exhale so as not to let it sound too much like a sigh of desperate relief. 

“Hey,” I do my best to keep my tone casual, even going so far as to lean against the edge of the breakfast bar behind me, to cross my free arm over my chest and tuck my hand under my elbow. “What’s up?” I say as if we say these things, as if we’re like this. As if my heart isn’t hammering in my chest with fear he’ll hang up on me for making this unprecedented reach over the careful boundaries we have in place.

“ _I’m- uh, nothing, why, is something wrong?_ ” Phil’s voice shifts immediately, high and on edge. Something clatters in the background.

“No! No, I just, uh, thought you might want to come over again?” I pause, intending to leave it open for interpretation, but my nerves get the better of me. “The plants miss you.” I add it in a low, soft tone. The hesitation on the other end has me ready to take it all back, to apologize for calling- _no, I have a different apology to make. I need to make this right. I need to fix it._ I need to _try_ , anyway.

So I wait, listening to the slow breathing of the man I love more than anything as he decides whether or not to give me another chance. Granted, it’s only been two days, but-

“ _Okay, if they miss me that much,_ ” I can’t tell if there’s a laughter in his tone or I’m just imagining it, but I hope it’s actually there. I hope nothing’s changed about this silent way he has of _knowing_ me, of seeing right through my facade, of pinning me with a single phrase. 

“Tomorrow?” I’m ready today, of course, or I wouldn’t have called, but I don’t want to push it too much. Although the desperation threatening to completely engulf me makes it pretty challenging to determine what’s actually considered ‘pushing it’. 

“ _Sure, tomorrow. I’ll come round maybe half two or so?_ ” I can’t fight the grin that crawls its way to my cheeks. It doesn’t leave the whole rest of the day.

The sun peeks through the clouds, landing in soft patches on the duvet.

\--------------

It’s 2:34pm. I’ve been stood at the door since a quarter past, on the off chance Phil showed up early. He didn’t. I really shouldn’t have expected him to, but I can’t help it. I can’t help the nerves that tangle in my stomach, tying knots around my excitement, my hope, my determination to do _something_ , to make an effort, to _try_ to set things right between us. 

And I don’t even know if it’ll be enough; that’s the scariest part. There’s that squirming, uncomfortable thought in my head that maybe, just _maybe_ , there is no fixing this. That whatever fissure split us apart, there’s nothing to be done to put it back together. I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the view of the wood door I’ve been staring at for nearly twenty minutes now, and try to bury that terrifying idea deep down.

A knock at the door startles me, my eyes fly open. I wish he’d just use his damn key. _I need something,_ I think, although I have no right to be asking anything of Phil. I ask it anyway. _I need something to tether me to the possibility of fixing things._ Carefully, I pull the door open.

“The plants missed me?” Phil asks, smirk curling his lips and lighting a spark behind his eyes. I never understood why people like to portray fire in shades of red and orange; clearly, they’ve never seen Phil laughing, or consumed by a new idea, or taking care of his plants.

Fire comes in waves of ocean blues, of leafy greens, of golden sunlit yellows.

“They did,” I say. I actually don’t know, of course, not for sure, but _I’ve_ missed him, and that’s really what he was asking. I think.

Phil takes a step toward me, but I don’t move back. He stops. I wish he wouldn’t. Slowly, I inhale, exhale. Remind myself why I invited him.

“We’re going out, actually,” I say, hoping to project a confidence I don’t feel. Hoping against all hope that this _works_ , that it helps. That we can mend. That we aren’t battered, torn out by the root and left to die in the sun. That we’re a little trampled, a little worn, but we can come back stronger.

“Are we?” His brows lift - to be fair, when was the last time I’d ever suggested we go _out_ and do something? ‘ _Hey Phil, can you go to the shop today?_ ’ ‘ _Can you get the mail, Phil?_ ’ ‘ _No, I’ll come along next time_.’ It’s a fair judgment, his surprise. Fear spikes in my gut, though.

“If you want? I thought we could, uh-”

“Sure,” Phil interrupts, which is just as well - I really hadn’t wanted to spoil it just yet. Phil steps back, out into the hall. I follow, lock the door behind me. Brush past him - probably closer than strictly necessary, but _he_ didn’t move away. I steadfastly ignore the hammering in my chest, the silent demand to _get closer get closer get closer get closer_ that echoes in my eardrums. I wonder if it’s loud enough Phil can hear. If he knows exactly how badly I miss him.

He probably does.

But even so, he keeps a safe, friendly distance. No chance of our hands brushing, not without a concerted effort, and I lead him down the pavement in silence. Well. Silence for a bit.

“Where are we going, then?” Phil asks, and I do my best to make it look like I’d drifted out, like I’m not achingly aware of his presence beside me but _too far away_. 

“You’ll see,” I let a thread of teasing into my tone, a slight smirk curl my lip. It’s always him, _only_ him, that can pull a smile from me even when I’m drowning in nerves, in fear and worry and desperation. And it’s a genuine one, in spite of the edge of banter.

“Can I guess?” He says, and it’s _Phil_ so I shrug and wave a hand. It feels _normal_ , or as normal as it can feel given we’re both outside under the London sky casting dappled shadows on the pavement below us. _That_ , to be fair, is quite unusual.

“Go on, then,” I offer, but we’re almost there anyway. I’m tempted to take a detour, to walk us in circles. To keep him just that few minutes longer.

“Is it- _oh_ ,” Phil stops in his tracks as the garden center comes into view. If he opened his eyes even just a bit wider, they’d be a perfect mirror for all the colors of blue and green and yellow that stare back at us. I pause beside him.

“I was thinking you could maybe help me, uh, pick out a new plant? Only if you want to!” I take a deep breath, trying not to- _no, this…I don’t want to do this whole ‘I don’t care’ thing._

“ _It’s been lonely_.” I exhale the words, softer than the others I’ve let loose in Phil’s presence today. More honest. _More_.

For a moment, Phil just stares, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to drop my gaze from his. I wish I was better at reading his features, I _should_ be, but I recognize confusion among the mass of emotions that flick across his face. Then recognition, maybe, or something akin to it, and his lips twist in consideration.

“Fine,” he agrees after a long, painful moment, and my bones beg to crumple from sheer _relief_. “On _one_ condition.” I nod before he’s even finished his sentence. “Can I pick one as well?” His lips press into a line that curves up, a soft smile that shatters every ounce of control I had over the barrage of emotions in my chest. Before I can stop it, my throat coughs out a sob, something ugly and not at all fitting for the amount of hope swelling in my heart.

“Yeah, yeah,” I manage to nod, doing my best to laugh off the tears that spill over and rain down my cheeks, “yeah, whatever you want. All of them, if you want,” I huff out a breath that sits between a chuckle and another ugly sob, but Phil’s grin just brightens, softens even _more_ if that’s possible; he reaches out, crosses the barrier of empty space between us, and takes my hand.

“We can pick some together?” His words shatter my last shred of dignity, and I use his gentle grip to pull myself into his chest, outright sobbing into his shoulder. When his arms wrap around my back, though, I can’t be bothered to care that I’m literally just crying in the middle of the pavement. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his shirt and in between heaving breaths that won’t release their grip on me. “I’m so _so_ sorry. I love you so much and I fucked everything up.” I don’t know if it’s enough, though, but I hope his words mean we can mend. I _really_ fucking hope. “ _Please don’t hate me_.” I can’t keep my fears from falling from my tongue, though, that whatever this is, it’s an _ending_. A thread of doubt in my stomach that demands acknowledgment, that demands I look at it and say ‘ _yes, maybe we’re over for good. Maybe this is just the softening of a blow, a way to let me down easy._ ’

“ _Oh, Dan_ ,” Phil’s voice in my ear sounds nearly as hoarse and full of emotion as mine, but I can’t bear to look. I can’t bear to see whatever’s written on his face, whatever he’s about to say. I can’t bear to leave the quasi-safety of his embrace for fear I might never get it again. Instead, I hastily build paper-thin walls around my heart that I know he’s about to tear down in spite of my pathetic last efforts at protection.

 _I’m doing it again._ I realize it with a jolt that stills every muscle in my body, that I’m doing it _again_. I’m so damn focused on me, and Phil’s stood here clearly just as emotional as I am, and I’m worried about my own damn feelings over his. _A plant with more complicated feelings, and I’m still doing a shit job taking care of him_. I inhale a shaky breath, still buried in Phil’s shoulder, then allow myself one single second of self-centered heartbreak before I shove it all deep down in my chest and step back. _Whatever this is, if it’s an ending, I hope it heals him. I hope it gives him the world, I hope it gives him every damn wonderful and beautiful thing he deserves._

“Dan,” he says it again, and I _hate_ the streaks of water running down his cheeks. _No!_ I want to shout. _You’re supposed to be happy. You’re sunlight, not rain. That’s me._ I swallow thickly, trying not to let another choked sob escape my throat. His lips press into a line, one that shifts rapidly between the slightest frown and the barest hint of a smile.

“I could _never_ hate you,” he lifts our joint hands, then uses them to pull me back into his chest. It’s every ounce the bone-crushingly tight hug I’ve been desperate for since the moment he left, and I let myself be completely surrounded. I let myself burn up in the intensity of his words, of his actions. _He doesn’t hate me_.

“You...don’t?” I say it like I’m not sure, because I’m _not_ \- I mean, I’m not sure _he’s_ sure. He can’t be, can he? After all the shit I’ve put him through, all the crap he’s had to deal with from me? He huffs a soft laugh into the crook of my neck, and the sensation of that alone might utterly shatter my heart, it’s so fragile right now.

“I _love_ you, Dan. I love you.” He says it softer, then, over and over, a chant of _love you love you love you_ in my ear and against my skin and I’m vaguely aware we’re stood out in the middle of the pavement like idiots but I suppose if plants can grow out of cracks in the concrete, why can’t we?

\-----------

“Dan, get up!” Phil’s voice startles me from the half-sleep he’d left me in - I can already smell the coffee, his pathetic attempt at dragging me out of bed earlier than the sun. With a groan, I push the covers off anyway. “Dan-”

“Yeah, alright, I’m up, I’m up,” I grumble, interrupting his shouting from the kitchen. He’s already dressed, a pair of black jeans hanging from his legs and the red jumper I adore brightening the space around him. “Nice jumper.” I make a point to say that every time - I think he thinks I’m just messing with him now, but it really is a good color on him. He deserves to know when he looks good. I get a sideways glance accompanied by a smirk for my efforts. And a cup of coffee slid my way, black and still steaming.

We lapse into silence as I attempt to mentally crawl out of bed, to catch my brain up to speed with my body via caffeine. Phil sips at his way-too-sweet more-milk-and-sugar-than-coffee coffee and I let my eyes travel lazily from the glasses sat on the bridge of his nose down across the warm red lines of his lips, lower until they’ve met the spot where his smooth, pale skin disappears beneath the collar of his sweater.

“ _Dan_ ,” Phil’s tone comes out warning, but one glance back up at his face says it’s anything but: he’s got a soft smile on his lips, something right between taunting and fond, and I match it with my own. My mug finds the table and my warm, free hand finds the back of his neck.

“ _Dan_ ,” he says it again, but it’s less insistent; his mug hits the table with a clink and his lips taste of sweet coffee and he doesn’t stop me when my fingers slide up into his hair, when my chest presses against his. In fact, he goes as far as to wind an arm around my waist, loose and lazy, and we don’t separate for several slow, languid minutes.

“ _Dan_ ,” and this time it’s accompanied by hands on my shoulders, by a slightly-too-fast breath on my lips, and I let myself be pushed back. “If we don’t leave soon, all the good ones will be gone!” He’s smiling, though, eyes bright and blue. I think the sky will be like that later, once the sun’s risen properly. I almost forgot that it hasn’t already, with the light radiating from Phil.

“ _Fine_ ,” I relent, “one condition, though,” I poke him in the side and down the rest of my coffee - it’s just cold enough to be a little gross, but I’ll need it if I’m meant to stay awake long enough to drive us for _four fucking hours_. 

Phil just nods, eyes squinted as he sips at his own coffee. Which has surely cooled as much as mine, but he drinks it like liquid candy. _With all that sugar, it probably is._

“When we get home,” I turn to glance at the sheets on the mattress behind me, rumpled and messed up from where I’d just rolled out. “We go right back to bed, and you let me worship you,” I turn back to find Phil’s head dipped slightly, his pupils blown wide at the suggestion. It’s bloody _intoxicating_ , a better wake-up call than any overdose of caffeine; watching Phil swallow thickly, take a step toward me, it sends my heart racing.

His hand finds the back of my neck, drawing me in the same way I had done to him not a minute ago, and I can feel my eyes drifting shut as his lips brush against mine.

“Well, come on then, get dressed!” He says in place of a kiss; then he leans back, breaking the tension in one fell swoop that leaves him giggling and me huffing out an unexpected breath that turns on a dime into a laugh as well. I leave my mug and smack him in the chest before retreating back to the dresser and pulling out my obnoxiously bright festive jumper - which Phil always announces that he hates but then whispers in my ear that he doesn’t, and he likes it when I look this bright - and the first pair of jeans I find. I’m not sure if they’re his or mine.

\-------------

“You’ve got to be _bloody_ joking, we’re going to scalp the thing just trying to get it through the door!” I’m stood with the damn tree halfway through, scraping against the doorframe and littering needles all over the floor. Because _of course_ we had to get the biggest christmas tree on the entire lot, the one we’ve been struggling to haul up seventeen flights for the past half hour. And now it barely fits through the door.

“It’ll be fine!” Phil calls from somewhere in the hall, beyond the thick layers of pine separating us. “Just keep going, we can just vacuum after.” I can’t see his face - I can barely see _anything_ \- but I have no doubt he’s just grinning in spite of the sap clinging to our hands and the needles poking _everywhere_ and the permeating pine scent that’s invaded my nose and started to give me a headache.

But Phil had wanted it, this tree. ‘ _It’s the perfect one, Dan, can’t you picture it sitting right next to the philodendron? And the snake plant?_ ’ So we’d gotten it, and I’d made the entire drive back with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, silently begging every deity I’ve never believed in to keep the thing from flying off our car. Well, my parents’ car, the one we’re borrowing for the day.

“Keep going!” Phil calls, so I take a step, cringing as another shower of needles sprinkles the floor. My arms and legs ache and sweat drips down my back in a sad attempt at mimicking the shower of needles, but we’re _so fucking close_ , if we can just get it inside…

Then Phil’s pushing at the trunk enough that I’m forced back several steps, nearly tripping over and into our bed, but it’s _finally_ past the door. I loosen my grip on the sticky bark and let the damned thing fall to the ground. _We’ve got a mess of needles to clean up anyway, this won’t make much of a difference._

Phil lets his end fall as well, then we’re both just stood there facing each other, sweaty and gross and covered in sap and fucking _exhausted_ , but we got the tree Phil wanted. And he’s just grinning like we won the damn lottery. 

But he’s not focused on the tree.

I’m assaulted a moment later by a sap-infused, pine-scented hug that sends me stumbling back until my legs hit the edge of the mattress and momentum topples us both over and onto the still-crumpled duvet. We land with heavy huffs of breath and I’m definitely being crushed, but Phil’s lips find mine and I can’t really be bothered to worry about breathing at the moment.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says when he finally pulls back, and I know what he means. I know it’s not just the tree or the trip or waking up early or driving us out to a christmas tree farm in the middle of nowhere. 

“You deserve it.” I remind him, I try to remind him as often as I can. Then I take my sap-sticky grip on his jumper - my favorite, though I imagine it’ll smell like pine for the next year at least - and flip him over until I’m straddling his hips on the bed. “Now, what do you want?” He deserves the world, but the least I can do is give him plants, spoil him, treat him the way he treats me.

For a long, slow moment, he just blinks at me. The light filtering through the vines in the window sends rays of sun flickering across the duvet, catching Phil’s eyelashes and this patch of his cheek and that spot on his shoulder. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. _How did I ever think I could get too much of this?_

Then arms wrap around me, pulling me down until I’m squashed against Phil’s chest with my head buried in the crook of his neck.

“Just nap right now? I’m _exhausted_.” He says it and I laugh, and I’m pretty sure we fall asleep exactly like that: half hanging off the mattress, covered in patches of sunlight and surrounded by _probably_ more foliage than exists in all of London proper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/176595768817/id-do-anything-to-not-be-alone-phanfic)


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